Take Care
by Ferith12
Summary: Prussia is to be dissolved, and America and Prussia have a conversation.


They speak to Prussia second. They leave Germany behind looking empty and lost and broken, but America has no pity to spare him, and anyway, France and England aren't that much better off.

They find Prussia lounging on the cot in his cell. To a casual observer he seems almost untouched by the war. He has no open wounds, no broken bones, no bruises, compared to the rest of Europe he looks whole. The only visible sign of his weakness is how thin he is. It makes the others, England, France (he can never tell what Russia is thinking), furious, as Prussia grins at them all in that self-satisfied way of his, as if he wasn't the one who lost this war at all.

But America watches him with eagle eyes, drinking in this man he once respected for what he knows is the last time, what he fought to be the last time. He sees the way that Prussia leans back on the thin mattress, the precise, measured, balance of him that feigns carelessness. He is treating strength as a treasured commodity, hoarding every scrap of it to himself, expending the exact barest minimum necessary. England and France are broken, but they will recover, there is vitality in their bones and victory in the set of their tired shoulders. Even Germany, beaten, broken, without hope, has life in him still. But Prussia, America sees, is already more than half dead.

It should make him feel better about the whole thing, like putting down an old dog, letting it out of its misery. But it only makes him feel tired.

He doesn't let it show, though, instead employing Stern Looks, and Understanding Smiles, and just a hint of Cheeky Grin where appropriate, as he explains How Things Are Now, and lectures Prussia on Where He Went Wrong. He's spearheading this thing, he's the One In Charge. He's not entirely sure how it happened, except that somehow, as the war wound to a close, he found that he could be in charge. So it's him that gets the honor of presenting to Prussia the fate he helped to decide.

"So in conclusion," America says, "We, the Allied Powers have come to a consensus."

Prussia gathers himself, every ounce of strength he has left, and sits up, casually, gracefully, as though the simple movement did not require all the stubbornness he has, back military straight and head held high, as America announces his execution. He does not seem surprised. His expression, firm and unafraid, does not waiver. The Allies leave.

"America, wait, I want a word with you."

America is alone in the room with Prussia. For a fleeting second he is afraid. It is ridiculous, how much power Prussia once held, how untouchable he seemed once, to a wide eyed boy just beginning.

"I won't apologize," America says. He does not regret his choices. He did what was best not only for himself but for everyone, as a hero should. He owes this man nothing.

"Why the fuck would you apologize?" Prussia says. He leans back against the wall and watches America consideringly, measuring, and America stifles the urge to squirm, to wonder whether his uniform is on straight, and opens his mouth to speak, though he does not know how to respond to that in a way that does not sound childish.

"No, listen, kid," Prussia says before he can say anything, "You're a superpower now, and a damn great one, and I won't tell you not to question the ethics of your choices, because that's probably what landed me in this mess to begin with, but you've got nothing to prove to anyone. You don't have to be fucking defensive. Killing me was obviously the right choice, it's symbolic and shit but it doesn't actually hurt anyone, not anyone human. That's what you gotta care about. It's your people first, and then everyone else's and us nations last. That's our job, and sometimes it's hard, but we just keep going."

"Are you," America says slowly, a little overcome by the surreality of it, "Are you seriously giving me a pep talk right now?"

Prussia laughs, a weak, breathy sound, not at all how it should be. "I guess old habits die hard or some shit," he says.

"What did you want to talk about, then?" America asks, and Prussia's eyes go soft and sad and sharp as flint.

"Look after Germany for me, please," he says, begs, and America has never seen Prussia beg before, isn't sure anyone has, "Take care of my baby brother. France and England hate him, and they've the right to, and Russia sure as fuck won't be there for him, not in any way that I'd approve of. You're all grown up now, a superpower like I said. Germany will be lost after this, without me. Please make sure he ends up okay."

America has hated Germany since World War I, vilified him, not quite as much as Japan, but that's a very high bar. And in this last war, perhaps it was deserved, given the horrific things done in the name of the German government. But now, for the first time, he thinks of him, Germany, the man they had left alone with such a very lost, empty look in his eyes, whose leader had killed himself, and whose brother was about to be killed, who is younger than America. And isn't that such a very odd feeling, to be older .

"I'll do my best," America says, softly, because he knows that this is far beyond his ability to promise.

"That's all I can ask," Prussia says, and he finally allows himself to relax, falling down to the bed and smiling a quiet, gentle smile that America dares believe is genuine, "Thank you."

"Good luck, kid," Prussia says as America turns to leave, "Don't let that bastard, Russia take over the world, and try not to let the power go to your head.

America stands in the doorway, and on impulse he salutes, the way he used to when Prussia told him to go dig latrines. "Goodbye, Prussia," he says, and closes the door.


End file.
